


In the Palm of Your Hand

by seizethelight



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: AU, Arranged Marriage, Assassins & Hitmen, M/M, Not Related, Parent/Child Incest, Photographs, Rough Sex, Superheroes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-25
Updated: 2014-05-25
Packaged: 2018-01-26 10:07:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1684478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seizethelight/pseuds/seizethelight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of Hansencest drabbles and ficlets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Overexposed

Chuck is constantly pestering Herc for photos, probably because Herc has been traveling more than usual and he can be a needy little bastard sometimes. To tell the truth, Herc is reluctant to do it - would have never tried it before digital cameras, with someone else processing the film, but now, it’s probably worse. With the click of a button it could be on the Internet, and Christ, isn't that just what they need.

But Chuck is persistent, and he can be charmingly persuasive when he wants to be, with that clever tongue and those agile fingers closing around Herc in the dark.

"Just want to see what you see." The words are strained, rough with desire, as Herc mouths his shoulder.

"I see you, hard and panting and eager for me to fuck you."

Chuck groans, his strokes hitching at Herc’s words. "But want you with me when you're gone. Please. Da-" 

Herc relents before his boy can finish the word, trapping the sound with his mouth. “One picture." He has to tear himself away from Chuck pressed against him, stumbles across the room, flicking the light on to find the desk drawer with the camera in it.

"C'mere." Herc lies back, pulls Chuck over him, licks into his mouth as his hand slides over Chuck’s ass. His finger depresses the shutter and Herc tosses the camera away, moves his other hand into Chuck's hair, rolling them so Chuck's writhing beneath him. Herc licks his way down Chuck’s body, feels a heady surge when Chuck cries out at the feel of Herc swallowing him deep. 

Later, Chuck's lower lip juts when he checks the shot. The photo's blurry, almost smeared with light trails, and they're just barely recognizable. But Herc reassures him, says he knows it's them and that's what matters. All things considered, it’s better if their faces aren’t visible. 

Two weeks later, Herc comes home to an empty bunk and a quiet room, no sign of Chuck to be found. After Herc's stowed his bag, he sits on the bed, unlaces his boots and stretches out across the mattress. His hand strikes something tucked beneath Chuck’s pillow. It's the photo, printed off the small machine in their room, edges already curled and soft from wear. 

With new eyes, Herc sees Chuck sprawled over him, desperate and needy, and the possessive way Herc's clutching him tight. They look good together, the angle catching his stubbled jaw, the broad curve of Chuck’s body straddling him, one palm braced against Herc’s chest. The image stirs him, and Herc has to admit, it's not the worst idea the boy's had, wanting this. 

His lingering exhaustion fades and Herc hauls himself off the bed. He tucks the photo back in its hiding place and adjusts himself in his fatigues before getting his shoes back on, setting out to find Chuck. He'll drag him back to their room after dinner, maybe hunt out the remote for the little camera, see about putting it to use for a proper shoot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> based on this [photo](http://whispersexinmyears.tumblr.com/post/44117572170).


	2. Grind

The mess was always jammed at dinner, and Chuck always tried to slide in about thirty minutes before the notification bell rang, just because he knew the food was ready and he could sit at his preferred table. Today, however, they'd been going over specs for a modification on Striker's hull. Faulty bolts were picking up too much drag, so the engineers had called a meeting with Herc and Chuck both to remedy the situation. It left them working right through the usual assembly time for dinner, so by the time they hit the mess, it was a zoo. Herc just rolled his eyes at Chuck's barely-muffled curses and pulled him into line behind him.More people pressed in behind them and Chuck was sharply jostled forward, right into Herc's back. His hand circled Herc's waist, trying to blunt the force of the blow, but it didn't halt the way Herc whirled about, glaring at his son. 

"Jesus, Chuck." His fingers squeezed around Chuck's arm. "Food'll still be there in five minutes, can't you entertain yourself for that long?" Shaking his head, Herc turned back around in the tight space, crossing his arms over his chest. 

Chuck reared back, ready to unleash a torrent of well-chosen profanity in his father's ear when a better idea struck him. Pushing forward, his hips connected with Herc's ass, palm snaking about his waist to splay over Herc's abdomen. The growing line just moved in, filling the few inches Chuck had just vacated, so Chuck was flush against Herc, chest to knees. Herc tried to turn, no doubt ready to upbraid Chuck once more, when Chuck just leaned forward, voice low in Herc's ear.

"Careful what you wish for, old man." Chuck punctuated the words with slow rolls against him. In the crowd, no one made any notice of Chuck's arm around Herc, or how his lips were a hairsbreadth from Herc's skin. He could feel the increasing thump of Herc's heartbeat under his fingers, how Herc was growing warm in the proximity, and how Herc's back arched, canting his hips into Chuck.

"You're going to be so sorry later," he hissed between clenched teeth.

Chuck's hand dipped low before the knot of people in front of them loosened, gracing the edge of Herc's work pants. He couldn't hide the wicked smile that spread across his face as he brushed hair-roughened skin for just an instant. "God, I hope so."


	3. Chapter 3

**Bartending**

The kid was a little younger than Herc's usual clientele, who usually ventured more to the grizzled, despondent, and middle aged - unless it was Friday or Saturday, then it was the yuppie hipsters, plowing through his stock of canned beer like locusts. Herc was ready to reject the fake driver's license the kid would surely produce from one of his pockets until he opened his mouth. The familiar broad vowels of NSW spilled out from his lips - red, wet, and finely-shaped, Herc was a lot of things, but blind wasn't one of them. He smiled, a dimple flashing in his face, asked for whatever was on tap, and Herc didn't bother with checking an ID or ringing up a tab. 

Truth be told, only time the age question crossed his mind again was later that night, when the kid had him pressed to the wall in the back office, hand down the front of Herc's jeans. Herc had to make sure, for the peace of whatever shreds of his mind could still string two thoughts together, that he was at least over eighteen - he just nodded against Herc's neck and his fingers continued their slow, steady strokes.

\--

**Arranged Marriage**

They weren't twins, they were supposedly just brothers, but gazing upon the two of them side by side, the color of their tunics the sole difference between them. Chuck had to strain to tell them apart, not even the color of their hair, their broad forms, or their stony expressions varied. Chuck wasn't sure which of the men was his intended, for he was simply prepared by the emissaries in his castle and sent off, the young groom in a treaty with a far-off land and strange customs. 

"Up, get off the ground. Come forward, boy" The one who spoke beckoned Chuck to them with a disarmingly kind smile, while his brother leaned back in his seat, a mask of schooled indifference on his handsome features. Only his eyes, blue and flinty, showed any sign of caring what his brother had planned for Chuck. 

Chuck rose off his knees and moved to the base of the thrones, looking to the pair of them, trying to hide the blush staining his cheeks from their intense gaze. "Forgive me, I don't want to seem rude, but which of you is my husband-to-be?" 

The other finally spoke, and his icy voice matched his detached demeanor. "Doesn't matter which of us marries you, Master Hansen. You'll find soon enough you belong to us both." The cold look in his eyes, the smirk he shared with his brother, made it plain that everything Chuck could possibly assume from such a statement was true - and then some. 

\--

**Superheroes**

Herc looks relatively unassuming, all well-tailored Italian suits and unaffected expression, but there's no one more lethal, no one more competent at dispatching threats, no single person in this realm or any other he knows of who Chuck wants on his side in a fight more than Herc Hansen. 

Chuck may have the chemically altered superpower, but Herc's talent is deadly threat. The skill of using his razor wit and wicked charm enables him to slide into any situation, assess the danger, and terminate it, leaving the premises neater than they were before their arrival. 

(Also, his criminally filthy mind makes many a long late-night stakeout with only the two of them far more interesting.)


	4. As the Smoke Clears

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for second person POV and rough (though consensual) sex.

Your arm's jerked up into your back, wrist twisted until it's between your shoulder blades. You feel his fingerprints in your hips and bite marks on your neck, just his voice in your ear as he slams in, "that what you fucking wanted?" 

Your own voice, moaning, "yes," sounds foreign to you.

Thrusts get more and more erratic, his words are coarser with each pass. There's nothing kind, nothing gentle-and it doesn't seem to matter because when he reaches down, his fingertips find you slick, easing the rough strokes. 

It doesn't have to be nice to be good between you. 

His fingers tangle in the hair at the back of your neck, pulling back so he can suck a mark along your jaw as he stutters his hips, voice wrought with a loathing that you realize is aimed at himself, but he can't stop, doesn't until he hears you cry out under his hand. He makes a few pushes, then he's spilling deep inside of you, and the drawn out syllables from his mouth sound like he's cursing and praising your name at the same time. 

It's wrong because it feels so right.

He pushes off after he comes, moves across the room in the safehouse, a hovel in some stinking eastern European hole. The space he filled is cold, empty in a way that barely leashed violence between you was alive. You can hear him muttering to himself as he disassembles the gun at his hip, eyes tracking you as you push away from the flaking plaster, make your way to the sink in the corner. There's a rough noise as he cleans the weapon, something that almost sounds like an apology if that wasn't such an absurd thought. 

He doesn't apologize, ever. 

You straighten your clothes as best as you can, arranging the rent, tattered fabric.

"Should be food in that drawer," he offers, avoiding your eye, and the stack of PR1Ms is better than nothing. You pull one out for him too, laying it on the rickety table, away from the weapon, carefully laid out before him. 

It's falling dark, you wrap the remains of the packet tightly, shove it in the bag you brought with you. Lying down on the pallet in the fading light, the clink and slide of him reassembling his gun is the only sound this high above the street. You count your breaths, then hold one when you feel the thin mattress sink behind you. His body roll towards yours, and you're strung tight, tense. His arm crosses your hip and his hand finds yours, just for a moment. 'Sorry,' he offers, and there's only a nod of acknowledgment, before his lips find yours in the dark.


End file.
